the children-第12章

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You　were　bored　by　people。　　It　did　not　occur　to　you　to　be　tired　of
those　of　your　own　immediate　family；　for　you　loved　them　immemorially。
Nor　were　you　bored　by　the　newer　personality　of　casual　visitors；
unless　they　held　you；　as　aforesaid；　and　made　you　so　listen　to　their
unintelligible　voices　and　so　look　at　their　mannered　faces　that　they
released　you　an　older　child　than　they　took　you　prisoner。　　Butit　is
a　reluctant　confessionyou　were　tired　of　your　relations；　you　were
weary　of　their　bonnets。　　Measured　by　adult　time；　those　bonnets　were；
it　is　to　be　presumed；　of　no　more　than　reasonable　duration；　they　had
no　more　than　the　average　or　common　life。　　You　have　no　reason；
looking　back；　to　believe　that　your　great…aunts　wore　bonnets　for
great　and　indefinite　spaces　of　time。　　But；　to　your　sense　as　a　child；
long　and　changing　and　developing　days　saw　the　same　harassing
artificial　flowers　hoisted　up　with　the　same　black　lace。　　You　would
have　had　a　scruple　of　conscience　as　to　really　disliking　the　face；
but　you　deliberately　let　yourself　go　in　detesting　the　bonnet。　　So
with　dresses；　especially　such　as　had　any　little　misfit　about　them。
For　you　it　had　always　existed；　and　there　was　no　promise　of　its
ceasing。　　You　seemed　to　have　been　aware　of　it　for　years。　　By　the
way；　there　would　be　less　cheap　reproving　of　little　girls　for
desiring　new　clothes　if　the　censors　knew　how　immensely　old　their　old
clothes　are　to　them。

The　fact　is　that　children　have　a　simple　sense　of　the　unnecessary
ugliness　of　things；　and　thatapart　from　the　effects　of　ennuithey
reject　that　ugliness　actively。　　You　have　stood　and　listened　to　your
mother's　compliments　on　her　friend's　hat；　and　have　made　your　mental
protest　in　very　definite　words。　　You　thought　it　hideous；　and　hideous
things　offended　you　then　more　than　they　have　ever　offended　you
since。　　At　nine　years　old　you　made　people；　alas！　responsible　for
their　faces；　as　you　do　still　in　a　measure；　though　you　think　you　do
not。　　You　severely　made　them　answer　for　their　clothes；　in　a　manner
which　you　have　seen　good　reason；　in　later　life；　to　mitigate。　　Upon
curls；　or　too　much　youthfulness　in　the　aged；　you　had　no　mercy。　　To
sum　up　the　things　you　hated　inordinately；　they　were　friskiness　of
manner　and　of　trimmings；　and　curls　combined　with　rather　bygone　or
frumpish　fashions。　　Too　much　childish　dislike　was　wasted　so。

But　you　admired　some　things　without　regard　to　rules　of　beauty　learnt
later。　　At　some　seven　years　old　you　dwelt　with　delight　upon　the
contrast　of　a　white　kid　glove　and　a　bright　red　wrist。　　Well；　this　is
not　the　received　arrangement；　but　red　and　white　do　go　well　together；
and　their　distribution　has　to　be　taught　with　time。　　Whose　were　the
wrist　and　glove？　　Certainly　some　one's　who　must　have　been　distressed
at　the　bouquet　of　colour　that　you　admired。　　This；　however；　was　but　a
local　admiration。　　You　did　not　admire　the　girl　as　a　whole。　　She　whom
you　adored　was　always　a　married　woman　of　a　certain　age；　rather
faded；　it　might　be；　but　always　divinely　elegant。　　She　alone　was
worthy　to　stand　at　the　side　of　your　mother。　　You　lay　in　wait　for　the
border　of　her　train；　and　dodged　for　a　chance　of　holding　her　bracelet
when　she　played。　　You　composed　prose　in　honour　of　her　and　called　the
composition　（for　reasons　unknown　to　yourself）　a　〃catalogue。〃　　She
took　singularly　little　notice　of　you。

Wordsworth　cannot　say　too　much　of　your　passion　for　nature。　　The
light　of　summer　morning　before　sunrise　was　to　you　a　spiritual
splendour　for　which　you　wanted　no　name。　　The　Mediterranean　under　the
first　perceptible　touch　of　the　moon；　the　calm　southern　sea　in　the
full　blossom　of　summer；　the　early　spring　everywhere；　in　the　showery
streets；　in　the　fields；　or　at　sea；　left　old　childish　memories　with
you　which　you　try　to　evoke　now　when　you　see　them　again。　　But　the
cloudy　dusk　behind　poplars　on　the　plains　of　France；　the　flying
landscape　from　the　train；　willows；　and　the　last　of　the　light；　were
more　mournful　to　you　then　than　you　care　to　remember　now。　　So　were
the　black　crosses　on　the　graves　of　the　French　village；　so　were
cypresses；　though　greatly　beloved。

If　you　were　happy　enough　to　be　an　internationally　educated　child；
you　had　much　at　heart　the　heart　of　every　country　you　knew。　　You
disliked　the　English　accent　of　your　compatriots　abroad　with　a　scorn
to　which；　needless　to　say；　you　are　not　tempted　now。　　You　had　shocks
of　delight　from　Swiss　woods　full　of　lilies　of　the　valley；　and　from
English　fields　full　of　cowslips。　　You　had　disquieting　dreams　of
landscape　and　sun；　and　of　many　of　these　you　cannot　now　tell　which
were　visions　of　travel　and　which　visions　of　slumber。　　Your　strong
sense　of　place　made　you　love　some　places　too　keenly　for　peace。







End